


fragrant

by TrashcanGod



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Gen or Slash, Introspection, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Parallels, lapslock, this was just a 15 min warmup but i thought it was neat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 03:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashcanGod/pseuds/TrashcanGod
Summary: Two boys' thoughts on the meaning of home, as told through scents.





	fragrant

you wake up to the smell of stale dust invading your nostrils. no matter how frequently you clean your new room, it always smells like dust and exposed wood--you suppose that's just how attics work.

but behind the dust is the more pleasant scent, freshly brewed coffee underscored with the subtle spice of curry.

you were never a particularly big fan of coffee, nor did you hold any strong feelings for or against curry. but living here, above the neighborhood cafe run by a man who was simply the friend of an acquaintance of your parents who wanted to do some good, these scents have become something special, something that bubbles up in your chest and makes you feel warm in a way you never really felt back home.

your childhood home's scent was one of detergent; of carpet cleaner reapplied to the point of neurosis, often enough that there was no personal scent to the place at all. of families who do not speak save for small talk at a dining table or faux closeness when under the judgmental public eye.

that was your least favorite thing about home: the judgement. in a small town like that, everyone knows everyone, and there's so little else to do that gossip is one of the only things to occupy the brain cells that would have otherwise been stifled by the unpleasant air.

the air in the countryside is not freeing--not in a town like that, anyway. one that's not quite sparse enough to feel one with nature, with just enough buildings and just enough of a population to feel oppressive. it's the isolation of a cottage in the woods, interspersed with the heavy feeling of constant scrutiny.

it smells like river water, and rice paddies at the edge of city limits; car exhaust and human exhaustion, family business and tradition slowly snuffed out by the smothering pillow of corporate greed.

but now, things are different.

this city is big, enormous, with towering skyscrapers that loom over you--but they do not feel judgmental, nor do they bar you off from the rest of the world. the monoliths do not judge. they are freeing, more freeing than an open field; ladders straight up to the blue sky, black at night from light pollution of a city that is always alive.

it smells like public buses and metro stations, like flower shops and perfume stores, like diners and cafes and arcades and people who do not know you and do not care to change that.

it smells like a dusty attic, fresh coffee, and curry. it smells like a cat that's rolled half onto your face in the night. it smells like friends who surround you and support you and talk to you more than anyone has talked to you in your entire life.

it smells like home.

 

* * *

 

once upon a time, the word 'home' had a scent to it. it had a feeling.

it smelled like an old apartment with tatami mats and two roll-out futons laid side by side. it smelled like your mother's arms wrapped around you on the days she could stand to look at you for longer than a moment. it smelled like the small meals she'd cook, grilled fish from the market and one bowl of rice each, and the instant miso that served to fill you up so you wouldn't want seconds. it smelled like the dish soap that you used to wash up for her, wanting to do something in return, climbing up a step ladder so your small arms could reach into the sink. it smelled warm.

and then it smelled like death. like the rusty scent of blood diluted in the still water of the tub. like salty tears and desperate, gasping sobs.

after that came the scent of stuffy carpeted legal buildings, and then of institutions that smelled like must and mold and listless children. it smelled of desperation, of pencil shavings and viciously rubbed erasers; a need to crawl to the top of the body pile to escape this pit where young dreams starve and die.

then you discovered the scent of another world.

robin hood smells like tatami mats and clean dishes; loki smells like nothing at all.

that was when revenge became the only thing your senses know. overpowering the polished wood of the police station, and the powder that you apply to your skin to maintain your perfection, and the smell of dust burning on hot stage lights, and the salty scent of the depression and desperation that you occasionally allow yourself to feel.

when you wake up in the mornings now, you smell a clean and bare apartment paid for with money that's dyed a shade of red like a still bathtub.

occasionally, though, comes the scent of coffee, underscored by the subtle spice of fresh curry. it's warm, like the smile offered to you by the boy who doesn't seem to realize that you don't deserve it.

from the tiny kitchen tucked away in the back, you can faintly detect the scent of dish soap.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I don't have a scent kink--
> 
> Hit me up on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/libralibrum) or my [writeblr](https://inquisitivelizard.tumblr.com), which is heavily under construction but is going to have info on my novel in progress. For now, most of the public info on the book is on twitter, along with character illusts!


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